


Deception

by nekonexus



Series: Samsara [2]
Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Post-Journey, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-10
Updated: 2006-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekonexus/pseuds/nekonexus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people would call it a curse to remember reincarnations; Tenpou claims to remember by choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deception

Most people would call it a curse to remember reincarnations, to bear the weight of memory through lifetime after lifetime. He has encountered some who think it a crime, but there is no rule against it. He wishes there was, so that he might actually be breaking it; certain things would be more entertaining that way.

He remembers by choice, though, clings to the bits of lives he's collected, the knowledge of transitions. Even the arguments between times; even the residual memory of his monumental screw-ups. (There was one of these, recently. He insists it was because he _didn't remember_ himself that lifetime. Things always fall apart spectacularly on those occasions when he forgets.) Still, that one turned out tolerably well in the end; well enough that he shouldn't be here now, alone.

Leaning back against the bridge railing, he rests his elbows on the top rail and considers the world through half-slitted eyes. It is raining -- a light summer shower, warm against his skin -- and his cigarette won't stay lit. He lets it dangle between his lips anyway. There's a city, sprawling around him, still dark in the quiet hours before dawn. He shouldn't be out here at this hour, at his age.

Tilting his head back, he lets the rain fall on his face and pretends it can wash away his thoughts.

 _"All warfare is based on deception, Marshal."_

It has been many many lives since he has commanded an army -- or rather, chose not to command, too often. Still the mindset stays with him, haunts him through reincarnations.

He smiles at his own conceit. This, too, he chooses to remember, to be haunted by.

The process of remembering is a process of preparation; of bracing himself against the life to come.

The bridge vibrates beneath him; the fall of boots -- two pairs -- rouses him from his introspection. He lowers his head, squints into the rain (doesn't need glasses, really, but it's habit to think so) and listens to the rise and fall of conversation.

Two voices, and he thinks, with the beginnings of that ineffable itch that always comes, that there is something familiar about them.

But no amount of preparation could soften this blow. Nothing could deaden this shock.

It's _him_ , he knows. The sun-gold hair, worn shoulder-length, enough to pull back in a ponytail. Tall, broader through the shoulders this time. Sturdier. And _him_ , on _his_ arm... but no. No, this is all wrong.

He's stepping forward before he can catch himself, and so they see him, and they stop. The man's gaze flickers over him dismissively. He knows what he must look like; a wet, bedraggled street kid, too young to be smoking. Only sixteen this time, but with the weight of years the man can't see.

The woman, though, she draws to a halt and makes the man stop as well. Water beads and glistens on her hair -- it might be chestnut brown, or black. It's hard to tell, in the dawnlight and the rain. "Hey," she says, and he has to close his eyes, because that voice...

That voice belongs to a redheaded halfbreed; or a dark-haired general; or a dozen other faces and names. But not to a woman. It has happened before, and it would happen again, but he had hoped....

He looks up at Konzen, frowning at him, impatient already. Glances down and sideways to the woman, to _Kenren_ , with that easy smile of his. They are both older than him, by at least a decade. They wear matching rings.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

It's a simple question. It has none of the layers of concern and _care_ that it would have coming from Gojyo. None of that edge of "if you're not, it's your own damn fault and I'm going to make sure you know it" that Kenren would give him.

"Yeah," he mutters, slumping back against the railing. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He's not all right by any means. Not fine, except in the acronym sense. He wants to grab hi-- _her_ by the shoulders, shake some sense into her or answers out of her --

 _What the hell are you doing with_ Konzen? _How the hell did you manage that? Why couldn't you wait? Why are you_ doing _this?_

\-- but it wouldn't do any good.

"Let's go," the man says, and the almost _gentle_ tone is frightening. More lethal than a gun.

 _So much for "I won't leave Goku,"_ he wants to spit at him. But can't. Won't. Goku was _itan_ , other. Could not reincarnate as they do. _Nor could Goujun._ Neither of them had had any right to choose a human incarnation, after the battle, after the division of worlds.

He refuses to think about that.

They walk away, leaving him with the summer rain, a soggy cigarette, and a city beginning to wake. He sinks down slowly until he's sitting on the bridge, knees raised before him. And he almost, _almost_ feels sorry for himself.

He can't interfere. Oh, he's made a habit of defying Fate and an art-form of twisted Karma, but this... after last time....

He's learning, slowly, that some forces will not bend to his will. That sometimes his stubborn self-centeredness only causes more pain. He'd be a fool to come between them. This time.

They disappear, into the city, and he climbs the railing. Weather-roughened steel scrapes at his wet palms. It is difficult to balance on the top rail -- it is rounded, slick with rain -- but he only needs to stand there for a moment.

He lets himself fall into the river and thinks, it is not melodramatic at all.

 _Warfare is the art of deception._

~*~*~

Of course, he could no more drown himself in that river than he could in the rain. It's almost a nice swim, though, save for the sodden weight of his jeans and sneakers dragging him down.

He makes it to the shore, sprawls boneless and breathless on the cobblestone bank and watches the lights come on in the city. The sun begins to break through the cloud and, for a while, he watches sunlit raindrops sparkle and fall.

Eventually, his stomach growls, rouses him. Time to get on with the day.

 _Live your life just as it is._

It is still difficult for him to accept. He always wants to _change_ things, and if he cannot change them then at least he must _comprehend_ them.

It is not given to any man to understand the workings of fate. Not that that ever stopped him from trying.

Three days later, he meets her in an alley and everything turns upside down again, because _she_ is male, and he...

He's not ready for this. He knows this could break him, knows the past -- that _particular_ past -- lies too close. Too fresh a pain, especially when added to Kenren's betrayal. (Shouldn't think of it in those terms, but can't stop himself.) If he had that strength to fall back on, if he could rely on Gojyo to _be there_....

He'd thought this lifetime was to teach him to live alone. After what he'd seen, it had seemed obvious. Learn to stand on his own two feet. The Old Hag _would_ think he needed to do that.

It's not until he feels the claws groping his hip that he realizes how terribly terribly wrong he is in so many ways. This shouldn't be _possible_ \-- the youkai and human worlds are separate now, parallel but not touching.

Somewhere, something's gone wrong already. A gap, a rift, a door --

He's thinking all of this as the man -- the _youkai_ \-- who was Kanan pins him against the wall. No rain this time; only the grey of a night that's never black in a city this big.

"You can't be here," he says, staring into hungry youkai eyes, feeling claws shredding through his jacket and shirt. Any other human would be screaming "monster," unable to deal with the reality of something so _alien_ intruding in their world. The stuff of nightmares. The youkai's intentions pale in comparison. Rape would be so small and mundane a thing, considering.

"Heaven lied," the youkai says, smiling. Its claws remove the button on his jeans, scrape against his zipper.

There's a trail of vines winding across the youkai's face, and he wonders how this is possible, wonders what clan the youkai belongs to. He reaches out a hand that is shaking only slightly, traces the mark across the youkai's startled features. "The gods save no one," he murmurs. "How did you get here?"

"We never left," the youkai replies. Catching his wrist, it licks his palm, a considering look in its eyes. "Why can you see through the glamour? How do you know what I am?"

He closes his eyes, feels breath hot against his face as the youkai leans in. "I... was a changeling...." _This youkai is not her,_ he tells himself. It doesn't stop the aching sharp longing from rising.

Clawed fingers close tightly around his neck, startling him. He opens his eyes, finds the youkai studying him intently.

"Was?"

"I chose reincarnation as human," he says, and there's more bitterness in his tone than he expected.

"Chose?"

If there were rules, he would most definitely be breaking them now. "Yes, chose."

The claws loosen, trail lightly down his neck. "A good choice?"

He laughs. "What does it matter? Heaven _lied_." Reaching up, he grasps the back of the youkai's neck, pulls him down until their lips touch in the briefest of kisses. "War is the art of deception," he whispers.

Karma has ensured that the youkai has a knife. This time, he's the one who takes it, who slips blade into unsuspecting flesh. The youkai's eyes widen, claws raking at him, too slow, too late. A gash across his cheek is the only result, and he licks away the blood as it drips down to his lips.

The blade stays wedged between ribs as the youkai stumbles back and collapses. He waits until it is dead, has no answer for the burbling question that it tries to voice.

 _"Why?"_

He'd like to know that himself. He would very much like to know.

It's not until he's walking away that he realizes he's laughing softly.

It's all so very _ironic_. He simply can't help himself. He feels no regret, only a certain _vindication_ , perhaps even an assuaging of the guilt he carried.

He always felt he had killed her. Now he has. It is perfectly fitting. Karmic retribution. Betrayal for betrayal.

He's still laughing, softly. The world is an immense joke. A farce.

Konzen might appreciate this one, actually. If he could tell him. If he would _believe_ him.

Their job was never to _fix_ things; only to stop the resurrection, which should have been enough.

 _Heaven lied._ Greatest joke of all.

He'll have to tell Konzen, and Kenren, and... oh, they'll think him mad, but they might believe. They might remember. This time. The rules have changed after all.

If there ever were any.

But first? First he must see about finding a white dragon.


End file.
